


Of Christmas, Love, and Lego dragons

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, John is in hospital, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mulled wine, Sherlock is worried, bbc sherlock fan forum secret santa challenge, bbc sherlock forum Secret Santa 2015, very minor character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are invited to a Christmas get together. Sherlock doesn't want to go - but after John ends up in hospital, he realises what's important in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Christmas, Love, and Lego dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I feel like I'm spamming. But this is a commission for a Secret Santa Challenge for the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum, so it was written back in November - I promise I didn't spend all the holidays writing! :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. Please do leave me a comment if you do! 
> 
> x

It all started the day before Christmas Eve.

Molly had invited them to a dinner party at her new boyfriend's house in Kent; Stuart the architect - as Molly had excitedly told them, after making introductions a few days prior, her eyes glimmering proudly - was looking forward to meeting them.

Of course, Sherlock didn't want to go. And at just hours away from the event John still hadn't managed to persuade him to stop grumbling about it.

"You know I don't like Christmas," Sherlock whined; very nearly pouting. John sighed, corners of his lips still turned up, because at least Sherlock wasn't refusing categorically just yet.  
"It'll be fine. It won't even be that ‘Christmassy’”- he visibly cringed at the word – “Stuart is allergic to pine needles - and spices, apparently."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock scoffed, folded his arms on his chest petulantly. "And pray tell, how would you know this? Am I going to discover that it's not this silly party that interests you, but the organiser himself?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted at that, horrified. "The reason I know is because Molly bloody told me!" He meant to say more, but stopped himself; there was no point.  
"Look. The last thing I want to do is fight with you about a Christmas party."

Sat on his chair, back ramrod straight, eyes looking away, Sherlock didn't react; and so John sighed again.

"I have to go to work now. We'll... we can talk later".

Sherlock turned his head lightly towards him. He didn't want to give in now that he'd manifested his opinion on the matter - yet he didn't want John to leave feeling that they were in a fight, either; in the end, he only set his jaw, and watched as John grabbed his coat, and left with a harrumph.

 

***

 

When the call arrived, he almost ignored it. Almost - but he answered when he saw it was an unknown number; Lestrade sometimes called from strange phones, in what Sherlock believed was certainly an attempt to irritate him - as if his incompetence wasn't enough already.  
But Lestrade, it wasn't.

"Mr. Holmes? It's Nurse Lewis, from the Chelsea & Westminster Hospital. You're John Watson's partner, correct?"

Sherlock had only been able to respond with a babbled, broken 'I am'; his blood had already turned to ice.

"Dr. Watson has been hospitalised. We're running tests on his cardiovascular system, but he's asked me to tell you -"

Sherlock had already stopped listening. The nurse's voice had gone tinny just after the word 'hospitalised'; and at 'cardiovascular system' he'd started having trouble breathing.

"I'll be right there," Sherlock growled, barked almost, and then grabbed his coat from the hanger - thank God he was still wearing his shirt and trousers - and threw himself outside, stopping the first cab that passed by, barking more orders about getting to the hospital 'fast as you can'. Every minute of that ride had gone so slow, so slow, that the moment he arrived at the hospital he had no patience left for any more waiting. Fortunately, the receptionist noticed his wild, red-rimmed eyes - _you're not going to cry, Sherlock Holmes, you're not going to cry_ \- and not even ten minutes later he was being chaperoned down a white corridor by the same Nurse Lewis he vaguely remembered speaking to on the phone. She tried to make conversation - something about 'just checking, just to be sure' - but all Sherlock wanted was to get to John, see John - nothing else.

And although he felt focused, a man on a mission, _it's alright, you're here, now you can see for yourself,_ his face must have contorted itself into a weird, unfamiliar expression because when John saw him he frowned, sat up straighter in bed, cocked his head to the side.

"Sherlock, you didn't have to-"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes wide, red-rimmed, _terrified_ \- his lips trembling, "John?" he hesitated at the door for a half-second, then strode to John's bed, sat on the chair right next to it, a bit awkwardly - and his hands were on John at once, touching his arms, fingers holding his hands.

"John, John." His voice a frantic murmur.

"Sherlock, hey. Hey," John murmured back. His hand cupped Sherlock's cheek, and made him look up. "Love? What's the matter?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot together.

"I - John - you're at the hospital, you - what happened?'"

"Hey," John murmured again. He stroked Sherlock's lower lip, trying to soothe. "Didn't the nurse tell you? It's just palpitations. It can happen, with PTSD. It hadn't happened in a while now, but - sometimes, it does." Sherlock kept wide eyes on him, so John continued: "In these cases they just run tests because, well, it's the heart, and they need to be careful."

That didn't seem to comfort Sherlock much. "But - the nurse said...," he insisted, in a breath that sounded like a sob.

John sighed. " I asked her to let you know that I was here but that it was nothing to worry about...What did she say?"

Sherlock blinked, corners of his mouth turned down. "I - I might have not listened."

Another small sigh; then John smiled briefly. Sherlock would have tried to smile, too – if only he hadn't become aware of someone else in the room. Lestrade; knocking gently on the door, opening it, politely waiting to be acknowledged; not uttering a sound, but of course Sherlock could immediately tell it was him – his footsteps, his presence, even his breathing, all unmistakable clues.

“Why is Lestrade here, John?” he asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice, and failing. John wasn’t supposed to be there to begin with – why were people now coming to his bedside?

“I called him. When the nurse told me you were on your way over.”

Sherlock watched as John smiled at Lestrade, and was able to read the silent message sent between the two practically instantaneously.

“I'm not going. I'm not leaving you here, John.”

“Love, you can't stay. They wouldn't let you, there is no space – and there's no need,” John said, firm. He was using his _doctor_ voice, the one that always made him sound like he had everything under control – the one that, in normal circumstances, always persuaded Sherlock to give over control. Right now, though, it only just dampened his apprehension. He bristled, and held onto John's hand, refusing to look back at Lestrade.

"Are you really alright, John? Are you?” Insisting; voice almost back to panicked. “Don’t lie to me".

John looked into Sherlock's still-red eyes, stroked at his lower lip again.

"I promise you Sherlock. I'm alright. It's just a precaution – it's normal procedure. They want to keep me in for observation, but it's nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock still refused to tear his eyes away from John. John smiled.

"Believe me, sweetheart, I want nothing more in the world than to go home now so I can make love to you."

Sherlock laughed through his tears. "That's not what you usually say," he murmured on John's lips.

"Okay. I want to go home," John started again; then in a lower pitch, husky: “ so I can _fuck you_."

"So you can fuck me," Sherlock nodded on John's lips, his own lips still wet with tears. He joined their mouths in a hungry kiss, and John pushed back against him, opening his mouth, deepening it instantaneously. For a couple of minutes their breathing was all that could be heard as they kissed, slow and deep and intense. Sherlock's hands were itching to touch, stroke, squeeze and pull – they almost never just kissed, their kissing practically always prelude to foreplay and sex - but that just couldn't happen here, of course. He was reminded of their surroundings by a quiet harrumph from somewhere behind them, and then John, the ever conscientious John, broke the kiss, pecked him gently one last time.

“Now, Sherlock. You don't want to give John tachycardia for real, do you?”, Lestrade tried for a joke; Sherlock chuckled on John’s mouth, blushed. “How about we let John get some sleep, and then you can come pick him up nice and early tomorrow?”  
He'd turned all fatherly; as he felt his heart squeeze at the thought of leaving John at the hospital, Sherlock realised he didn't really mind his paternal concern. He grimaced a bit again, and closed his eyes to steel himself.

“It's alright," John murmured to him, stroked his thumb over a cheekbone again. “Yeah? I'll see you tomorrow."

He waited until Sherlock reluctantly nodded, and then removed his hand, sat back on the bed. Sherlock stroked a hand over his own face, tried to get rid of his tears as fast as possible – _so embarrassing, always crying, just stop –_ and then he stood, forced himself to smile.

“Come on, you”, Lestrade encouraged, steering him gently towards the door.

 

 

***

 

 

"Are you sure you're alright?", Sherlock asked for the third time that morning.

Barefoot, wrapped in a bathrobe, John rubbed a towel into his short sandy hair.  
"Baby, I'm fine! They would have kept anyone in observation, especially with my history. Just - believe me...?"

Sherlock looked up from where he was manhandling his laptop from its hiding place in the table drawer, cut him an amused glance.  
"Well, you just called me 'baby'. You can't really blame me for thinking you're not feeling well".

John set his hands on his hips, huffed out a sigh - but his mouth distended into a smile. His eyes were bashful.

“Sorry. What can I say, you've been fussing over me all morning, you have me flustered," he waved his hand. Then he frowned. "And what are you doing?"

Sherlock had stuffed his laptop into a bag, and was now moving on to John's phone charger and electric shaver, which he placed on top of a pile of clothes, nearly folded and stacked inside a small suitcase.

"We're going to Molly's party. It's 10am already - thought if we leave about now, we'll be in Ashford by midday, which will give us enough time to check into our hotel and then drive over to-"  
Sherlock stopped his quick-fire explanation at the sight of John's face; the older man was smiling, his eyes soft, and glittering. Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"What?"

"We're going to Molly's party?" John's smile grew larger, tender. "Thought you didn't want to?”

"No, no, I think we should go," Sherlock stood, leant back against the table, looked down; spoke quickly again. "We should meet her boyfriend, she - she finally found a serious one, would be a shame to let her efforts go to waste".

John chuckled; walked over to him slowly, placed his hands on Sherlock's hips.

"Oh, really?"

"And Mrs Hudson wants to go," Sherlock continued. His hands held onto the edge of the table tightly, and he didn't look into John's eyes. "And I've booked us a suite at this hotel not far from the cottage. It's a spa - you can - you know, relax, play golf - things like that."

"Play golf...?", John teased tenderly again. One of his hands left Sherlock's hips and went to nudge his chin gently to get him to meet his eyes; Sherlock's expression was sweet, lost. He shrugged.

"That's what people do - when they attend such places."

John smiled, looking up into his face. "You're amazing, love. Thank you." Sherlock blushed, looked down again; John pushed himself more tightly against him, pushed his pelvis against Sherlock's belly through the soft terrycloth of his bathrobe.

"Do you think," he murmured, stroking a thumb slowly over Sherlock's nipple through his thin lounging t-shirt; Sherlock closed his eyes. "Do you think we have time for a bit of - what we were saying last night?"

He pushed up, taking Sherlock's lips in a kiss that deepened almost instantly. Sherlock sobbed quietly into his mouth and John softly moaned back, pushed his erection more firmly against Sherlock's abdomen, making him feel it. Sherlock kissed back for a couple of seconds, then gently pushed with his hands against John's chest.

"John, no. We have to leave soon. Mycroft's car will be here very shortly."

"Mycroft?"

"If you two are quite done pawing at each other", Mycroft appeared as if on cue, grumbling from the door, looking immaculate as ever. He cleared his throat. "Would you kindly _put some clothes on_. We should really be on our way."

Behind him, by the door, Mrs Hudson beamed - clearly the culprit in having let him in unannounced.  
"Ah Mycroft, don't give the boys a hard time," she scolded jovially. She was all dressed up, and smiling from ear to ear. "They're really alright. The married ones next door get up to much worse if you can believe Mrs Turner!"

John closed his eyes, took a deep, resigned breath - his hands fell limply at his sides, his erection disappearing immediately.  
Sherlock chuckled under his breath.

 

***

 

 

"Now we need to build the roof!"

Stood on the patio, crisp air gently biting at his face – it was pleasant - Sherlock watched through the big glass doors as, inside the house, a small child played with big multi coloured Lego bricks.

“Yes, I think red would be a good choice, " Molly's boyfriend Stuart was saying, as he helped in the construction of a rather wonky, rather interesting looking sort of house with three blue walls and a green one. “Definitely a better colour for a roof, unless you want it to look like a Hobbit house…”

"I don't want a hobbit! I want to make a dragon!", the child said, the words turning petulant at the end. He wrapped short arms around himself, frowned, and sulked. Sherlock rolled his eyes: of course you can't build a dragon out of giant Lego bricks - that's just ridiculous. Children, honestly...

Stuart, however, smiled calmly; his relaxed, possibly-plain-but-probably-friendly features showing that he was a social being, at ease with people, even with whiny children.

Sherlock blinked, looked down. There was a picture in the house, by the hallway, one he'd noticed as they came in, of Stuart and Molly together, smiling and embracing as they posed in the middle of a huge bank of snow - it looked like it must have been somewhere in the area. They seemed happy. Sherlock glanced over at Stuart again, then at the child, who was now back to smiling; he bit the inside of his lip, looked away.

"You alright?”

John had appeared at his side. Sherlock blinked – he must have been really deep in thought, nearly inside his Mind Palace, if he hadn’t heard him approaching.  
John looked at him questioningly, frowning. The cup of mulled wine in his hand was steaming, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the fruity smell that reached his nostrils.

“I'm fine. Just – thinking.”

John nodded; took a sip.

“Want to go for a walk?," he asked, clearing his throat. “It doesn't look like it’s going to rain, and we still have a couple of hours before it gets dark.”

Sherlock knew he was being offered an out from the people in the house, the atmosphere warm, but at times too intimate and demanding for him. He nodded.  
The patio overlooked a rather large portion of field that extended behind the cottage, currently covered in grey-green dormant grass, and dotted with pine trees and shrubs – blackberry? No, bramble - with a small but lively stream of water that separated that sort of well-kept back garden from the patch of woods further afield. Sherlock followed John down the wooden stairs that connected the patio to the ground, and then away from the cottage, towards the river, and alongside it.

“Nice bit of countryside, this," John said, and took another sip of his mulled wine. It must be lukewarm by now. “Nice for – a holiday. Not every day, no.”

It was obvious he was trying to fill the silence – test the waters. Sherlock wanted to smile, reassure him that it wasn't needed, he was fine; but that wasn't the truth, not entirely. And so he didn't react, only kept his eyes on the small river - the clear water streaming peacefully yet lively, miniature waves crashing into miniature rocks, like the tiny version of a waterfall, the shrunken copy of the bank of a torrent he'd seen in a documentary he wasn't really watching on telly.  
To the water, he spoke.

“Was it me?”

He wasn't looking directly at John, so he only saw him out of the corner of his right eye, as he blinked, uncomprehending.

“Was it… Was it you??”

“Did I cause it. Did you get stressed and did you end up in hospital because of – my behaviour?”

“Sherlock, what-“

“You have to tell me," Sherlock interrupted, finally turning his eyes to John. His heart beat fast suddenly and he could feel he was running out of breath, but he forced himself to stay calm and controlled because _must not upset John again_. “John, you have to tell me. I can change. I never knew but – I can control it. I can change. I _will_ change.”

John froze. Sherlock saw him blink, blink again, open and close his mouth; then step back. His face changed – from placid to agitated; so much so, in fact, that the cheerfully streaming water looked and sounded so completely misplaced next to him. Sherlock thought back to the photograph: happy. In tune, serene. Such a difference.

“Sherlock, no. Just – no.” John said, frowning. “No. What – why would you think that?”

Sherlock looked at him, huffed through his nostrils in frustration.  
“I've never been good for you. This has always been true, but now – now it’s even detrimental to you physically and I can't…”

The split second of a realisation: and Sherlock no longer knew what he was fighting for. Frustration made him see reason – there was no point in hoping, he couldn't change, of course he couldn't, why was he promising John, once again, when it was never going to happen? The photograph flashed in his mind again, cruel, and he closed his eyes.

“…you should be with someone else. You should want someone like – like Molly, or Stuart. _Not me_.”

It took a few scary seconds, but the thumping of his heart in his head dissipated, somehow – and he was able to hear silence. Silence coming from John; thick, heavy silence, over the chirpy sound of the happy little river.

“…not good?" he dared to ask, risking a glance towards John; his voice died in his throat when he saw that John looked thunderous. Absolutely thunderous.

“Not good, no.” John’s voice was a growl. He clenched and unclenched his fists, took a deep breath; glanced back towards the cottage, as if getting ready to raise his voice. Sherlock looked down, towards the frozen grey-green grass, and kept quiet.

“Not everything is about you." John's tone was low, severe. It made Sherlock look up at him for a brief moment, to check his eyes. “Not everything is connected to you.”

He looked away, down; then back up again, towards Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock. Look at me?”

The words, surprisingly soft, unexpectedly so; Sherlock inhaled, looked up.

“You are my whole world. I'm no good with words, but - that's the truth. However, that doesn't mean that you're always responsible for everything that happens. You have to- “and here John stopped, started again. “I don't want Molly, or Stuart, or any other person, because – because that's just what you _think_ I should want." A pause. "I want _you. You_ are the one I want.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened; he blinked, wanted to speak, but couldn't. That was the first time John had ever said anything like that to him, and Sherlock felt, really deep in his chest, that his insecurity and self-hatred weren't needed just now.

“I-“, he started, wanting to protest, however half-heartedly now – but John didn't let him speak.

“Sherlock. You're at a Christmas party - even though you hate Christmas - just because I wanted to go, even though there’ll be songs and noises and strangers and you usually avoid all that. Hell, even Mycroft's run off long ago, and he doesn't even hate Christmas as much as you do! That is some sacrifice," John chuckled – but he was speaking sincerely. Sherlock seemed to only be able to linger on the negatives, all the aspects of his personality that people usually didn't get, or flat out disliked; somehow, John managed to not just see past that, but shatter it altogether. John managed to make him feel important, useful – cared for.

“That is the person I want.” John took a step towards him, hesitant, then reached out, and with the thumb of his left hand he stroked Sherlock’s lower lip. “You make me live, Sherlock Holmes; you're certainly not gong to be the one to kill me.” Thumb stroked again, and John chuckled. “Well, not yet, anyway”.

“John," Sherlock chuckled as well, feeling his eyes crinkle at the corners. John took the extra step that separated them, and looked up; gently nuzzled with his nose and lips against Sherlock’s cheekbone, a bit like a kiss, but more like a request, the nudge of a suggestion. Sherlock turned his face, gave in to it; and their mouths joined.  
Soft at first; a gentle press of lips, a gentle bite - a deep breath, then tongues, teeth, lips. Hands. John’s slid slowly down to Sherlock’s hips, held fast onto the bones – and Sherlock moaned, needy, breaking the kiss to nudge his forehead against John’s.

“I believe you promised to make love to me, Doctor Watson," Sherlock murmured on his lips, his voice a quiet, bashful sob.

John kissed his mouth again, softly; reverently.

“I am,” he said, smiling; making Sherlock smile with him.

 

***

 

The mulled wine, in the end, didn't taste too bad. Sherlock sipped, standing by John quietly, while John happily made conversation with Mrs Hudson and laughed when she mentioned for the third time how the warm alcohol made her ‘wobble, so terribly quickly’. The mince pies were Sherlock’s favourite: sweet, crumbly, so rich that he felt as if he’d eaten a whole box of them instead of just one, so satisfying. Every now and then John looked up at him, his eyes checking, making sure – and Sherlock knew that whenever he wanted to leave, John would be ready to go with him.

Stuart’s nephew still played, seemingly not having had enough of his new toy yet. Molly sat nearby, watching them with a mellow, loved-up expression; Sherlock found that he wanted to roll his eyes but his lips turned up at the corners instead, traitorous.

“Look, look! I made a dragon!”, the child squealed then, holding up a pile of red bricks – a square base, two pieces hooked on top – was that the neck? - and finally a green one, sticking out from the outer edge of the upper brick. “It's a dragon, look!”

Molly looked at him, smiled, then looked at Sherlock. Her eyes were laughing. Apparently, it seemed it was actually possible to build a dragon from Lego bricks after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
